


The Colors of Gods

by writelights



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Absinthe, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writelights/pseuds/writelights
Summary: color - the property possessed by an object of producing different sensations on the eye as a result of the way the object reflects or emits light.





	The Colors of Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Have some angst that I write over the span of like two hours.

The dictionary definition of color is this: “the property possessed by an object of producing different sensations on the eye as a result of the way the object reflects or emits light,” but in reality, is color not so much more than that? This is what Grantaire often spent his days turning over in his mind.

Grantaire loved colors almost as much as he loved Enjolras; he especially loved the colors he had grown to associate with Enjolras. Red, the color of blood, the color of Enjolras’ favorite waistcoat. Blue, the color of his eyes, the color of the sky on the nicest of days. Gold, the color of his hair, worth more than Grantaire could ever afford.

When he painted Enjolras, he took his time mixing the colors to the most perfect of shades. He couldn’t draw a straight line anymore, but that was okay because Enjolras’ hair was naturally curly. There were ten thousand tiny “I love you’s” woven into every portrait, every stroke of his brush.

Grantaire did not kiss Enjolras, did not touch him. Most days he did not even speak to him in fear of the disparagement the always came without fail. Sometimes, on his worst days, any sort of interaction was enough. He would take it happily, the acknowledgement of his existence the only thing he craved.

He strongly believed that he was nothing more than a useless drunk in Enjolras’ opinion. That he viewed him as a dog: following him around, coming when called, taking what little attention he could get. Of course this was how he saw things - he was a cynic, after all.

Often, when they were shouting at each other in the middle of the Café Musain, Grantaire wanted to break down in tears. He wanted to look at Enjolras with glittering eyes and yell “I love you” over and over again until his voice was hoarse and the words had lost their meaning. And he wanted Enjolras to say it back, to apologize and hold him close and love him until the end of time.

But the only thing Enjolras loved was France. He did not love individual people, only the concept of people as a whole. He loved the poor and the needy, not the drunks who spent all of their small inheritance on absinthe and cheap wine. He did not love Grantaire, he never would, no matter how much Grantaire wished it.

As a child (and as an adult, judging by most of his waistcoats), Grantaire’s favorite color had been green. A bright emerald that could be seen from three miles away or blend into the background entirely, depending on the lighting. He like the versatility of it. He liked how it could allow him to hide in the dark as well as literally shine in the sunlight.

This is what absinthe had seduced him with. The color, that beautiful, deadly green. Doctors such as Combeferre said it was a hallucinogen, that he should be careful with it. He did not listen. The green fairy put him to sleep quickly, let him forget Enjolras and the approaching revolution for a few hours.

He spent most evenings drunk on absinthe and wandering the dimly lit streets of Paris. He had grown up on those streets, he knew them better than the back of his hand. He wasn’t born a rich boy like most of the people he considered his friends. He was a street urchin, a bastard, the child of a whore and the drunken father who raised him. Alcoholism runs in families, Combeferre says. Perhaps he is right.

At a young age Grantaire had promised himself he would not bring a bastard of his own into the world, and he was careful to uphold that promise. He took every precaution possible when bedding a woman, but if a pregnancy did happen, well, he would marry her. He would not allow a young woman to be disgraced because of him, and he told them this from the start. Many were grateful, some more than grateful.

A man, however, that was a different affair. He had to look at least vaguely like Enjolras, at the very least his eyes had to be blue. Grantaire did not know why, or perhaps he did, but that was a must. He always cried. Always, without fail. He hated himself for it, but his father had drilled the fear of God into him, and though he would never admit it, he felt as if he were being disloyal to Enjolras.

Enjolras, a man who would barely ever spare him a second glance, let alone share his bed. Enjolras, who did not love him, who he could not be disloyal towards because there was nothing there to show loyalty to. Enjolras, a God among mortals.

Is this what a man gets for loving a God? A God has many colors, a mortal only one. Enjolras: red, blue, and gold. Grantaire: green, the color of absinthe. Three to one, Enjolras to Grantaire. If life were a competition, Grantaire would be losing. Even though it isn’t, Grantaire was still losing.

“I love you,” he said in his dreams. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and Enjolras merely watched him, because Grantaire was too much a cynic for his dreams to be much different from reality. Enjolras was like a marble statue, Grantaire a smudged oil painting lost to centuries of drink and tears.

In another time they could have worked. In another time where there was no revolution, no France, no absinthe. If there were no colors, they could have worked if the world were black and white. But it wasn’t, and Grantaire’s heart was breaking into nineteen tiny pieces he’d have to carry around in a brown paper bag for the rest of his days. He had learned in art class that some colors did not mix, and perhaps that was applicable here. The colors of Gods did not mix with the colors of mortals. They were too fundamentally different, conflicting in the most base of ways.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points if you can find the Almost, Maine reference!


End file.
